


without you (i’ll never be home)

by demonicxiconic



Series: good omens: lockdown but make it even gayer [1]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Bad Communication, Bickering, Crowley Was Raphael Before Falling (Good Omens), Cuddling, Falling from Heaven, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Ineffable Idiots, JUST TALK ABOUT YOUR FGUCKINH FEELINGS FOR REAL, Literal Sleeping Together, M/M, Mutual Pining, Nightmares, No Smut, Pining, Quite Extrordinary Amounts of Alcohol, Scene: The Bookshop Fire (Good Omens), bad memories, even tho they’re already semi-dating, god theyre so dumb, ineffable husbands, no beta we die like men, quarantine fic, that’s how stupid they are, the obligatory queen reference
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-07
Updated: 2020-06-07
Packaged: 2021-03-04 00:34:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,057
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24584656
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/demonicxiconic/pseuds/demonicxiconic
Summary: a continuation of good omens: lockdown.Even though they are technically together, Aziraphale and Crowley don’t quite know how to communicate that they’d rather like to see each other.In short, the Ineffable Idiots are ineffably idiotic for over seven thousand words.trigger warnings: the infamous bookshop scene, falling, nightmares, crying over said nightmares, quite extraordinary amounts of alcohol
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: good omens: lockdown but make it even gayer [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1810507
Comments: 22
Kudos: 75





	1. chapter one.

**Author's Note:**

> title from ben platt’s share your address.
> 
> this was written over a series of all-nighters, so the writing style and general feel of it might vary from chapter to chapter. i tried to edit it as best i could tho :)
> 
> come yell at me on tumblo under the same username (idk how to do links lol)

It had been twenty days since the phone call, and an angel and a demon had, unbeknownst to each other, both been drinking rather excessively for four of them.

Presently, Crowley found himself staring intently at his phone as if he was silently interrogating it* for the seventeenth time in those twenty days**. He was once again stuck in a loop of indecision, sat on a nightmarish merry-go-round that never stopped spinning, and when you thought you’d finally found the exit, it moved to the opposite side.

*Think Professor Dumbledore “calmly asking” Harry if he put his name in the goblet of fire levels of intensity, but purely expressed through silent, snakey malice. The plants in the room were shaking slightly, glossy, pristine leaves shrinking away from Crowley. They knew that look all too well.  
**Four times sober, thirteen times drunk. Most of the time, he’d simply looked pointedly away and yelled at any plants that had looked at him funny afterwards.

He rested his cheek on the counter, still determinedly glaring at the phone, daring it to ring, and let out a small groan of general discontent. He wanted to see Aziraphale so badly, and they couldn’t even get sick, and he could miracle himself there if the angel gave the word- so why hadn’t he? Given his word, that is.

The demon made another whiny noise, shifting so he could stretch out more comfortably on his countertop. It was quite a depressing sight, really, a grown man, or rather, a grown man-shaped six thousand year old occult being, lying about on his kitchen counter, moping over his fickle.. partner? Boyfriend? Person he’d kissed maybe three times and would really like to do so again. They didn’t really do labels, but that was close enough to a definition for Crowley.

And anyways, he was being fickle too, he mused, accidentally knocking an emptied bottle of.. something or other off of the edge* as he moved his leg so that the corner of the surface would stop digging into his thigh. He could’ve called him up and asked again, couldn’t he? But that would be too pushy, and they were taking it slow, and it’d been six thousand bloody years but Crowley was willing to wait.

*If you must know, it was a skull-shaped bottle of Bacardi he’d gotten as a prize for winning a Halloween costume contest. Despite Aziraphale’s warnings, he’d taken off his sunglasses and allowed his wings to unfurl, sauntering onto the stage and promptly getting first place.

And yet he wasn’t.

Because right here, right now, in the middle of his kitchen, surrounded by countless bottles and glasses of alcohol, he wanted Aziraphale. So, so badly. And not just in a carnal sense either, no, he could deal with that with just a quick sloppy solo session on the sofa, no, he wanted his shining smile that was both bitchy and oh so pure, and he wanted his smell of ozone and butterscotch and red wine and old books, and he wanted to run his fingers through his white-gold hair, and he wanted to listen to him prattle on about anything he wanted for hours, if only to hear more of that lovely voice, and he wanted his little giggles that he reserved only for Crowley. He wanted and wanted and wanted Aziraphale, all of Aziraphale, right then and right there.

He stretched languidly once more, one hand dangling off the side of the island, the other propped behind his head, and sighed a dramatic, drunken sigh, tongue flickering annoyedly. His hair was getting shaggy, and he ran his fingers through the tangles of it, turning his head and watching it glitter auburn and gold in the sunlight like a handful of fire.

He picked up a bottle at random and took a swig, humming something that sounded vaguely like “You’re My Best Friend” as he glumly stared up at the ceiling. Quarantine was not for him, he decided. 

At least it was better than the fourteenth century.

Across the city, Aziraphale was having an equally sad moment, essentially chugging a bottle of cheap (for his standards) Chardonnay that he’d found behind the racks of nicer wines, which had both been depleted down to about one-fourth capacity. The only reason they weren’t completely emptied was for the sole reason that he had enough place of mind to not drink his vintage special-occasion wines. He was draped sideways over a cushy, dusty pink armchair that had lost about thirty percent of its cushiness since he’d bought it in 1903. 

He’d also continued baking, and had been doing so in numbers that would honestly be quite concerning to anyone but himself, and Crowley, who didn’t much care what the angel ate, as long as he enjoyed it. 

He frowned a bit at himself. Here he’d been having a perfectly good sulk and barely thinking of the source of his sulking at all, and then his subconscious had to go and ruin it by mentioning that wily, idiotic, unfairly attractive serpent.

Currently, he was nibbling morosely on a raspberry white chocolate chip biscuit, which he would have thought immensely tasty at any other time, as it was both the product of an enjoyable job well done and a raspberry white chocolate chip biscuit, but right then he was moping, and moping always made food taste like dust. He kept eating, though, hoping that somehow if he consumed enough, his tongue would reconnect with his brain and produce the happy chemical again. What was it called? Serotonin? Dopamine? One of those, anyways.

He knew it was stupid and irrational to think that he’d somehow override his emotions with baked goods, but some doggedly hopeful part of him commanded him to take another gulp of Chardonnay and pop the last bite of his biscuit into his mouth, hardly chewing before he swallowed the whole mouthful. He could almost hear that bloody demon in his ear, muttering something evil and snakey like, “Oh, Zira, dear, you’re being unreasonable, take some blasted care of yourself for Sa- for Go- no, y’know what, for your own sake.”

He told imaginary Crowley to shut up because he, too, occasionally had moments, and he, too, was rather bad at any sort of cognisance in said moments. Imaginary Crowley made a small sound, somewhere between a “tch” of annoyance and a hiss, which was quite spot on of his brain.

It didn’t matter how much he imagined, nothing could ever compare to the real thing. 

Somewhere in the past few minutes, he had interlocked his fingers together, and he looked down at them in a sort of detached confusion. As soon as the thought of the hand he was holding being another’s, being calloused and long-fingered and with painted black nails chewed to the quick, he felt a dull ache building in his hand. Those thoughts shifted to hands softly resting on his shoulders, and arms wrapped around his waist, and long, lithe legs slung across his lap, and every spot he imagined the demon touching felt like a bruise being prodded at. He wasn’t sure if it was emotional or physical pain, but it hurt, in the unique way one can only feel as a result of someone they love.

He tore himself out of his thoughts and stood, brushing the crumbs from his jacket, and meandered over to the telephone, wineglass in hand. He was halfway through dialling Crowley’s number when he stopped, pressing the heels of his hands into his temples. What in the world was he doing? He’d made his decision, he’d told Crowley it wasn’t a good idea to come over, and he couldn’t change it now. The demon was probably taking his two-month long nap now, anyways, and he’d surely be cross if he was woken before he wanted to be.

So Aziraphale was not calling him. He walked a good twelve feet away, sat down on the couch, a rather nice one he’d bought for an almost ridiculously cheap price at a flea market, and determinedly did not look hopefully over at the phone.

Oh, bugger, maybe he did once or twice.

It’s just that Crowley was so.. tempting, for lack of a better word. ‘He’d certainly taste better than those biscuits’, some debaucherous corner of his mind supplied. And alright, maybe he had thought a bit about those clever fingers threading through his hair, about the way his name fell off his tongue in a way that sounded impossibly dirty, about his wry smile that said so much and yet hid everything, about the way he listened as though Aziraphale was the last being on earth, about those molten gold eyes burning through his soul.

Okay, it might’ve been more than a bit.

But he was still absolutely, resolutely not calling him. No matter how much he wanted to see and touch and taste him, he didn’t want to be bothersome, and besides, he’d already said it wasn’t safe. No use going back on it now.

He drained his wine, glancing surreptitiously at the phone once more through the glass.

It was silent.

He let out a small huff, and fell back onto the couch, pouting. He curled into a comfortable position, nuzzling into a pillow and wishing with at least eighty percent of his heart it was Crowley*.

*The other approximately twenty percent was still a bit in denial, but he was working on it.

He supposed a bit of shut-eye wouldn’t be too bad. He’d never really slept, only gone into a sort of.. trance-like state, and though he was certainly as out of it as is possible without having sustained serious injury, he thought a spot of meditation would do quite nicely. Perhaps he could forget about this whole pining business*.

*Which would be rather hard, as he had practically invented pining.

He allowed himself a few more conscious thoughts of the demon, flicking through the files of his memories and picking one out at random.

And he saw Crowley, smiling in a way that was nervous and soft and absolutely heart-melting. He was standing in a greenhouse, lit marvelously by sunlight and surrounded by flourishing plants, and Aziraphale recalled that this had been at the Kew Botanical Gardens. Their first proper date*.

*Really, it was their only proper date as of yet, but Aziraphale deigned not to dwell on that too much. Besides, they’d had millennia of unofficial dates beforehand.

Crowley had been wearing a simple white button-up with the sleeves rolled back to the elbows and yet another pair of skinny black jeans, with a little red peony sticking out of the shirt pocket, and he’d looked so stunning Aziraphale had abruptly decided to skip all formalities, giddily kissing the broken-off “Hey, ange-“ right off of his tongue. When they’d broken apart (barely a second later, they were in public for Her sake), both parties had been grinning widely, though one was quickly overtaken by nerves. The angel had apologized profusely, he was so sorry, he didn’t know what had come over him, this was their first time out together, well not together, but together together, and he was already messing it up, and Crowley had broken into peals of wicked laughter, propping up his sunglasses onto his forehead to wipe a bit at his eyes. The light had glinted on the frames, and the same radiance had been echoed in the other man’s eyes.

“It’s alright, Aziraphale. More than alright, now that I think about it.”

And then they were both awkwardly looking at their feet, the demon’s ears turning a ruddy pink. Then he’d started talking loudly about the various types of plants, fidgeting with the bottom of his shirt, and, still slightly flushed, the angel had slipped his hand into his and just listened. Crowley hadn’t said anything, but the way the colour in his cheeks creeped even higher had spoken multitudes about how he felt about that*.

*As had the overwhelming, heart-stopping kiss he’d given him when he’d dropped him back off at the bookshop. Every time he looked at the pillar closest to the doorway on the right, he’d always get uncontrollably flustered at the memory of how easily he had submitted to the demon, the way his hands snaked around his body, so much so that he’d simply decided to surround the offending item with stacks of books.

Aziraphale smiled softly at the memory, cracking open an eye to look for the peony, pressed and framed, on his wall. He blindly waved his hand around a bit until it collided with the bottle of Chardonnay, picking it up and drinking the last of it in one swallow, still laying on the couch. A few drops fell onto his face, but he simply wiped them away with his sleeve and turned back to his pillow, wrapping an arm around it almost protectively.

He closed his eyes, and imagined it was not fabric, but instead, a lean, lithe body he was curled around. He imagined the way the demon would shift closer into him, trying to absorb his body heat as best he could without being noticed. He would, of course, be noticed, because subtlety was really not his strong suit. It was such a nice scene he was imagining, he was quite sad when he moved his head into a more comfortable position, thereby making his body press forward so far into the back of the couch that no human, or human-shaped being, could reasonably fit there. He sighed a small, disappointed sigh, and gave up the ghost. Nothing could match the real thing, after all.

So, wine-drunk and full of yearning,* The Principality Aziraphale, Former Guardian of the Eastern Gate, snuggled into a pillow and promptly fell asleep, platinum curls sticking out at odd angles, peacefully snoring.

He dreamt vaguely of pale skin and black-painted fingernails and the taste of laughter and champagne against his lips.

*Over the years, he’d gotten rather good at being both of those things, often simultaneously.


	2. chapter two.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> this is the one where the dreaded bookshop scene comes into play. be prepared.

He was dreaming of an ocean.

Wings out, the salty wind weaving deftly through the feathers, he stared out at the horizon, feet dangling from the dock and brushing the surface of the cold water. The sun was setting in a fantastical way, burning orange and pink, leeching the color away from the sky to give way to the darkness. Tongues of flame extended out, scorching the clouds a golden-red, and all this shining and burning and glory and flame was gorgeous, simply gorgeous.

It was a sight he’d seen a million times, yet somehow never tired of.

Perhaps it was the company that made it better. Without even looking over, he knew the other man was softly smiling. They’d both always had a bit of a soft spot for sunsets, though neither were sure when this had begun.

Storm clouds were beginning to swirl overhead, and a drop of rain landed on his flowing robes, the same ones he’d worn in the Garden. Instinctually, he shifted closer to the presence he knew would be there, to shield and be shielded by.

But when he turned his head, the other was not there.

A bolt of lightning struck the choppy water in front of him, and he scrambled back, looking with growing concern for his counterpart.

There were great, craggy mountains, and beautiful rolling hills, and a cliff with a waterfall that seemed to fall down forever. But he was not there.

And suddenly he was back in the bookshop, the walls crumbling down around him, the flames of the sunset crawling up the ceiling as he stood, shocked into stillness, in the smoke and chaos. He whirled around, papers and ash blowing into his face, and screamed, a heart-wrenching scream of terror, and love, and regret.

“AZIRAPHALE!”

A choked sob escaped his throat, and Crowley turned, his golden eyes brimming with helpless tears, to the burning bookshelves. The one person that understood him, that pushed him to be better, that loved him..

was gone.

The demon’s face tightened into something wretched and angry, and he fell to the floor, looking desperately around for a flash of tartan. There was nothing left in this accursed world for him.

“You’ve gone..”

The floor gave out from under him, cracking with a loud groan, and suddenly Crowley was falling.

He gasped in lungfuls of freezing air, trying desperately to get his wings to beat again, but the downward force was too strong. He rocketed down, looking up pitifully at the sun, at his creator who had deemed him unworthy of Her love, and burning tears fell from his eyes. 

He fell for hours. It was so quiet, and so cold. He could feel his feathers being torn from his wings and burned away, every bit of holy essence drained out of him, every memory the angels possessed of Raphael, creator of the stars. He watched, unable to tear his eyes away, as his stars twinkled cruelly above, the cold moonlight making him feel even more exposed and weak.

It was so quiet. He was so cold.

And Crowley woke, breathing hard, sprawled out on his couch.

There was a crick in his neck from the odd angle he’d passed out in, and as he sat up, his skin stuck determinedly to the leather, making him let out a small hiss of discomfort. It felt like he’d been hit over the head with a cricket bat, and the sun, which was still obstinately shining, shining bright enough to burn out his retinas, certainly wasn’t helping.

He winced and rubbed at his eye with one hand, the other flailing blindly to find his sunglasses, when he realized that there were tears slipping out of his eyes.

“Oh, blast it all,” he muttered pitifully, and then he was crying. 

Now, according to any biologist you’ll ever talk to, snakes cannot cry. They do produce tears, but they end up trapped between their second eyelids and their eyes, meaning they can’t overflow unless the eye is somehow damaged.

Crowley, however, was outside the rules of science by simply existing, and also didn’t give a single shit what he was supposed to do, so he allowed himself to quietly sob, the palms of his hands digging into his eye sockets in a strangely comforting way.

He’d almost lost his only constant in life. Every few years, the world got a new Crowley, ever changing with the times, always moving forward, moving away from the day he was struck from the sky by his own creator. But Aziraphale was comfortable with the world passing him by while he remained still, in his bookshop, surrounded by books that had come to the end of their journey through life.

Crowley needed someone like that. Because not only was he always there, unwavering in his identity, but he’d always been there, whether standing on the wall of the Garden, or eating crepes with him in France as the humans fought their silly war, or getting holy water for him, just in case, or raising what they thought was the Antichrist together.

And Aziraphale was the only holy thing that hadn’t scorned him. He was the sun that warmed him back to life, he was the gentle music playing to chase away the awful silence, he was his shelter from the rain. Quite literally, in fact.

He scrubbed at his eyes one last time, then stood unsteadily, meandering around his apartment and watering the plants, uncharacteristically silent. He began singing a song he’d heard on the radio about halfway through, scratchy and low and aching. The plants stopped trembling a bit, and, although still wary, quietly appreciated the music.

Around an hour later, the kitchen was empty of bottles*, the plants freshly misted, and Crowley was feeling rather hollow again. His head still ached viciously, because even a supernatural being cannot drink for four days straight without consequences.

*Hastur, upon walking back into Hell, was greeted by the sight of hundreds of miracled-in bottles of various shapes arranged into a very rude hand gesture, which made him laugh hysterically, frightening several lesser demons. He promptly ordered Dagon to write up a new piece of legislature declaring it to be a staple of hell that should not, under any condition, be removed or tampered with. If he’d known that it was Crowley’s doing, he probably wouldn’t have done any of that, but as it is, it seems that maybe once every few millennia, Hastur does enjoy a joke or two.

He thought of the dream, and of the drinking, and of the phonecall, and of the angel, and suddenly he felt quite stupid.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so that was,, a thing


	3. chapter three.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> this one’s kinda short but i couldn’t torture my boys any longer than necessary

You have seven new messages.Thursday, May twenty-first. 1:39 pm.

“Hey, uh, Aziraphale. ‘M sorry about that whole.. not calling you again business, I was being pretty stupid. I didn’t end up doing the nap thing. Didn’t really feel like it. ...Anyways, call me when you can.”

Friday, May twenty-second. 12:47 pm. Beeeeep.

“Angel? I know you can hear these, you can’t exactly leave your bookshop, and y- well.. eh, you could be reading, or baking I s’pose, but answering machines are pretty damn loud, and you have.. scarily good hearing, so- eugh. I’m getting off track. What I mean is, I’m pretty damn sure you’re getting these, so, unless you’re.. mad for some reason, call me back.”

Friday, May twenty-second. 7:12 pm. Beeeeep.

“Ugh, angelll, why aren’t you picking up? Did I piss you off somehow? Bollocks, I did, didn’t I. Fuck fuck fuck fuck. Whatever I said, I promise I probably didn’t mean it. I was being weird, and I wasn’t thinking straight, though when am I, I’m not straight- damn it, I’m getting off track again. Please just pick up. I am honestly being consumed by boredom. At least you’re entertaining when you annoy me. The plants just.. shake.”

Saturday, May twenty-third. 10:58 am. Beeeeep.

“Aziraphale, for S- for G- for my sake, honestly, why the fuck aren’t you calling me back? At least tell me if you’re angry at me!   
“...That was rude. Please tell me what’s going on.”

Saturday, May twenty-third. 1:08 pm. Beeeeep.

“God, I dunno why I’m even bothering anymore, you’re clearly uninterested in any form of contacting me. Y’know, that’s- that’s fine. I didn’t really want to talk to you either. I didn’t miss you remotely. This’ll be my last message.”

Sunday, May twenty-fourth. 1:54 am. Beeeeep.

“Shit, angel, what the heaven do you want from me? I’ve apologized for things I didn’t know I did and asked for the sssmallest thing in return and you’re just- silent. I don’t bloody know what’s going on with you, or with me- I-“  
“.. I lied before, okay? I’m going ssstark raving mad over here, and it’s just me and the damn sssilence, and it’s awful, it’s all awful, and I just want a hint of life from someone other than me. It’s fucking freezing here too, and it’s all marble and concrete and glasss and nothing warm, and I drank all the fucking alchohol, all the wine, all the rum, all the vodka, all of it. Ss’all gone. I-I’m not even drunk now, jussst fucking cold and tired and- and damn it, I want to talk to you, desperately, but you’re not there and-“

Sunday, May twenty-fourth. 2:41 pm. Beeeeep.

“Fuck it. I’m miracling myself over there, angel, and you better not be sitting at the door waiting for me when I get there.”  
“..Also, I’m sorry for last night, I let my mouth sort of start flapping, and I wasn’t sure how to stop it once it was going. It was probably depressing to listen to. I don’t even know what I said.”  
“Anyways. Coming over now.”  
“Ngk.”

Beeeeep. End of messages.


	4. chapter four.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> i know i need to title the chapters something better but i’m uncreative so fuck you

Aziraphale was most decidedly not waiting for him at the door when Crowley pop!ped into the shop with a small shower of sparks. He turned to survey the room, and suddenly he had a horrible sense of deja vu from searching for a small flash of tartan in this very same bookshop. 

He shook his head slightly. He was being ridiculous. The angel hardly kept real candles around anymore, anyways, because of a combination of lack of necessity (the Almighty didn’t seem to be worried about what was going on with Aziraphale lately, and he’d said he was fine with it like that), and very understandable anxiety on both of their parts.

What he did seem to keep around, in quite ridiculous amounts, were baked goods. In the portion he could see alone, Crowley could count twelve loaves of bread, seven plates of pastel-colored macarons, twenty-six different types of cookies, five cakes, eighteen pies, and a plateful each of chocolate and vanilla merengues, all strewn randomly about the bookshop. There were also countless emptied bottles of wine sitting on various surfaces, and Crowley winced at the thought of the hangover the angel would be getting.

Right. Angel. Where is he.

The demon took a cautious step forward, speaking in a stage whisper that was uncomfortably close to a hiss.

“Aziraphale? Where’ve you got to?”

Silence.

He began to meander through the shelves, nervousness growing with each step. There was a minute layer of dust on most surfaces, which only helped to take the nerves up a notch, as Aziraphale absolutely hated getting dust on any of his books, especially the older ones.

He rounded the corner into one of the seating areas, calling out again, slightly louder this time.

“‘Ziraphale! It’s me.”

Still nothing.

Crowley stood still for a moment, tongue flickering out to try to taste him in the air. There was a distinct scent of ozone and sugar somewhere near him, and he wove between the precarious bookcases to find the source of it, shoes clacking loudly against the hardwood in the uncomfortable silence. He stepped into another lounge area, and the smell was suddenly overpowering, but in a way where he wanted to wrap himself in it, drown in the familiarity.

Oh-kayy, maybe next time, don’t spend two months away from Aziraphale, Crowley thought. He must have been more desperate than he’d originally thought.

He walked through the lounge and into the study, where the door was left wide open, a lone cork laying in the doorway. Nervously, he stuck his head through the doorframe.

Oh.

Oh.

Well that rather explained a lot.

Aziraphale, the stupid, awful, gorgeous, lovely, wonderful man, had fallen asleep on the couch. His face was open and peaceful, free from the weight of the stresses of life, his cheeks a tempting apple pink. He looked positively radiant in the sunlight streaming in from the window, his chest gently rising and falling with his breaths, shirt wrinkled beneath his vest. The demon wondered absently if he was dreaming for the first time.

Crowley had never seen him so.. free.

Despite every instinct in his snakey mind telling him to shift forms and just slither into the angel’s warm embrace, he sat down at the edge of the couch, grabbing his shoulder and shaking him a bit.

“Angel, wake up.”

“Nmmph.”

“Come on, Aziraphale, you’ve been sleeping for who knows how long. Time to face the world again.” He emphasized this by shaking his shoulder pointedly and a bit more aggressively.

“Mmgh.”

“How are you such a bastard and so blindingly adorable at the same time?”

At this, the angel raised his head up a bit, hair immensely flattened on one side, and cracked open an eye, looking hazily confused (and even cuter).

“..Crowley? Z’zat.. really you?”

“Ngk.”

“Take that.. as a yes.” With that, he promptly grabbed the demon by the arm and pulled him down to the couch with him, a startled sound coming out of Crowley’s throat as he flailed about. The two were quite suddenly nearly nose to nose, and Aziraphale set about rearranging their limbs in a comfortable position for both of them, while the demon simply stared in bewilderment.

“Um, I, uh.. how long ‘ve you be- been asleep?”

Aziraphale made a noncommittal noise, drawing himself closer into Crowley by way of his hips, to where the demon could feel the angel’s breath on his cheek. Heat rushed to his face, and he looked away, waiting for the moment where this was all revealed to be a dream.was all a dream and he was going to wake up back on his couch, hungover and feeling incredibly embarrassed. But there was no waking from this.

Aziraphale smiled sleepily, beginning to doze off again, his hands wrapped firmly around his partner’s waist. Said partner was tentatively allowing himself to relax, resting one hand on the other man’s shoulder, the other tucked neatly between them, their legs quite completely intertwined. As a bit of an afterthought, he took off his sunglasses, flinging them off somewhere in the room. The angel’s smile grew even wider as he felt Crowley tuck his chin into the spot between his shoulder and his neck, chests so close he could nearly feel the demon’s heartbeat.

Crowley’s voice was a soft grumble in his ear.

“Once we get up, you had better have a good explanation for this, angel.”

“..all ‘n due time, dear boy.”

And so they slept, intertwined by fate and by body.

Looking down on the universe, someone smiled.


	5. chapter five.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> to make up for chapter 3, this one’s super long (ahem that’s what she said AHEM) anyway i hope this is a good finale!

A few hours later, an angel awoke in a demon’s arms.

Aziraphale blinked in confusion. When had Crowley gotten here? When had he fallen asleep?

He reached carefully over Crowley, deftly taking his cell phone from the back pocket of his abysmally skinny jeans* and pressing the power button.

*He didn’t mind how they looked on him, certainly not, but he imagined taking them off would be such a pain. Not that he imagined Crowley getting undressed, or anything of the sort! That was an absurd thought.

6:29 pm  
May 24

He blinked again. It couldn’t be the twenty-fourth yet, could it? He had never slept before, how had his first time ever unconscious lasted over six days? Though, he had read a few articles on the effects of sleep deprivation, and, being as he’d gone six thousand years without it, he probably had a lot of catching up to do.

He pulled back far enough to tap Crowley on the nose, giggling quietly when he stuck out his tongue in mild annoyance.

“Crowley, dear, would you mind getting off of me? I’ve, uhm, been sleeping for quite a while, and I’ve no clue what I’ve missed out o-“

He was cut off by the demon aggressively snuggling closer, and he smiled despite himself, stroking the back of Crowley’s head and untangling a few knots. He hissed in response, jerking his head away from the offending hand, eyes snapping open.

And the demon was suddenly very aware of how close they were. It was a bit ridiculous for him to be so affected, he’d literally just nuzzled into Aziraphale’s shoulder, but seeing his slightly bemused-looking angel right there at the tip of his nose made his brain short-circuit a bit. He looked away, cursing his pale skin, knowing as the heat rose to his cheeks that he was turning an unflattering shade of pink.

And, to make matters worse, Aziraphale giggled (giggled! What kind of self respecting supernatural being giggles?) again, and pressed a soft kiss to Crowley’s cheek.

His eyes, completely out of his control, fixated on the angel. Aziraphale thought it quite a funny sight, the big bad demon all wide-eyed and flushed pink to the tips of his ears. In fact, he was still smiling when Crowley surged forward, maneuvering them so the blonde’s back was to the armrest and he was straddling his hips, mouths inches apart.

Aziraphale was no longer smiling.

“I- wh- my dear, I- I hardly think this necessary. In any way at- at all! In fact, why don’t we just go get up and read the paper, or- or perhaps we could.. eat some of those lovely, um, lavender macarons I made!”

Crowley had been torn between staring into the angel’s eyes and at his mouth, but that made him look up. Aziraphale squeaked quietly at the sudden burning intensity of his gaze, which the demon made sure to remember to tease him about later.

“Angel, if you really, genuinely don’t want this, I need you to tell me right now.”

The angel was silent, staring wide-eyed up at his demon. Crowley bit his lip nervously, and then quietly said, “Right then. Um.”

Aziraphale raised his eyebrows pointedly.

“..Well?”

Crowley rolled his eyes.

“I’m getting there, you bloody impatient angel.”

“D-do get there faster, dear.. I’ll have you know that I’ve been waiting a rather ridiculously long time for this.”

“...Ngk.”

“Did you even have a plan going into this?”

“Well, yes, but then you had to go and ruin it by being all-“ here he leaned back and vaguely gestured to all of Aziraphale- “fuckin’, y’know, you.”

“For goodness sake, I’ll do it then. Get over here, you silly demon.”

Crowley silently scooted forward, still rather pink with embarrassment. Aziraphale gave him a rather exasperated, but still fond, smile, and took his hands, placing them on his shoulders. Crowley noticed with growing concern that the angel’s hands were shaking slightly, his smile wobbling.

“Aziraphale? You alright?”

“As it happens, I do believe I might be equally, um, nervous.”

“‘S alright. We.. we could stop, it’s up to you really. You could tell me about those macarons, if you’d like.”

“No, it’s not that I want to stop, it’s just.. I’m not sure how to start. And- and if I started I’m not sure how I’d stop.”

Crowley shrugged, looking away for a moment.

“The stopping… isn’t really a problem, honestly. I, um, could help with the starting, though, I guess, if you wanted.”

Aziraphale nodded quickly, once again sporting a sort of deer-in-headlights look. Crowley ran his hands up the angel’s chest, grabbed onto the lapels of his jacket, and pulled.

They both had the vague thought that perhaps something about an angel and a demon’s kiss being so sweet and sinful and good had to be blasphemous, but it was only there for a moment, quickly washed out by thoughts of taste and smell and feelings and oh, Aziraphale was gripping at his bony hips in a truly desperate way, and then he had the audacity to moan quietly into his mouth, and how could Crowley not be utterly, completely in paradise after that shameless display?

They broke apart, panting, and the demon smiled giddily*, eyes half-lidded and soft as he licked the taste of Aziraphale off of his lips.. He picked up the angel’s hand, interlacing their fingers and planting a gentle, chaste kiss on the tip of his nose.

*Though it was intended to be more like a leer than anything. Crowley was rather out of practice with evil face-making, though, so rather than a menacing, seductive cobra, he gave off the impression of a head-over-heels, dopey garden snake.

The angel blinked, going cross-eyed for a moment to look at Crowley, before smiling back at him, squeezing his hand.

“I suppose the stopping bit really isn’t a problem, is it.”

Crowley cackled, and collapsed forward onto Aziraphale’s chest, both giggling quietly. They lay there for a moment, simply enjoying the comfortable silence.

“Y’know when you said you’d been baking, angel, I didn’t think it’d got to this level.”

“Oh be quiet! I.. well, I missed you, and I suppose I attempted to fill the you-shaped hole with sweets.”

Crowley was silent, moving his head so that he could stare up at the other. He’d known, somewhere inside him, that Aziraphale had missed him, perhaps even as badly as he’d missed him, but to hear it said out loud was quite jarring. The angel looked away for a moment, letting out an awkward little laugh. 

“It does sound rather silly now, doesn’t it.”

The demon could allow many things, but that self-deprecating tilt to his angel’s lips was not one of them. He sat up, shaking his head vehemently.

“Nonononono, angel, we were both being stupid, it’s fine.”

“Darling, what in the world did you do that you might consider stupid?”

Crowley waved his hand and scoffed, looking away and slumping back into the couch, tucking his legs up so the angel had enough room to sit comfortably.

“Er- nothing worth mentioning. Jus’.. y’know… emotions, or whatever.”

“Your emotions are certainly worth mentioning, dear. Now tell me, or I’ll be forced to talk about snuffboxes for the next three hours.”

“Oh god, not that, anything but that.”

Aziraphale fixed him with a pointed, piercing glare, raising an eyebrow.

“You’re damn cruel for an angel.”

Silence.

“Fine, fine. I- I may have cried a bit. On the outside. Actual tears. Liquid. From my eyes. Over you.”

The demon was staring at the floor like it was the most interesting thing in the multiverse, biting nervously on his bottom lip.

“Dearest-“

“S’alright now. You’re here, aren’t you?”

A quiet sigh. Aziraphale was abruptly scooching into his lap, wrinkling his nose as he adjusted his neck into a better position. Crowley thought it to be the cutest thing he’d ever seen. A hand came up, swatting a bit at his jaw.

“Ah! What was that for?”

“Don’t bite on your lip. You’ll start bleeding.”

“I’ll bleed if I fucking want to!”

Pointedly, he stood up, spinning around and biting down on his lip at the disgruntled angel.

“How about those macarons, hm? I’d quite enjoy watching you eat a few.”

Aziraphale tried his best to look angry, but quickly gave up the ghost, blushing like a ripe peach.

“Oh, you fiend!”

Crowley laughed a snakey laugh, turning on his heel and sauntering out into the bookshop. The angel tutted, but stood following him into the kitchen. The sun was creeping through the blinds as it set, and Aziraphale began telling his demon about all the various confections he’d made, which soon led to them baking some delicious orange-vanilla cupcakes, which led to some equally delicious kissing, all sweet and tart and closer to divine than either of them had ever been.

They ended the day in the front room, watching the sun burn down to nothing, Crowley’s arm draped across the angel’s shoulders as he sipped at a mug of chai. Aziraphale’s hair was messy and unbrushed, and in the golden light, it looked rather like a faint halo was sitting about three centimeters above his head.

The angel turned to him, brushing a lock of hair behind his ear, and the demon was suddenly filled with such incredibly good feelings that the stubborn bit of him that was still actually demonic hissed and turned away. He smiled, guiding Aziraphale’s hand to where he could set down the tea, and kissed him, tasting the spices and the orange and the still-lingering wine, and his soul let out a sigh of ‘finally.’

Aziraphale had never realized how empty his bookshop was without Crowley in it. He resolved to have him stay over more often. He pulled back, wrapping his arm around the demon’s waist (and not missing the quiet squeak that resulted), and pointed at the column next to them.

“Do you know, when you kissed me against that, I was just so incredibly embarrassed every time I looked at it, I had to cover it up!”

Crowley laughed, resting his head against the crown of the angel’s. Aziraphale picked up his tea, chuckling quietly as well.

“Do I really affect you that much?”

The angel looked away, taking a long sip from his tea. Crowley watched, golden eyes focused on him and only him. If a bomb had gone off outside it wouldn’t have been given a second thought by either party.

“I- well, I suppose that you do. I- I mean, you must’ve known, you.. vain creature!”

The demon shifted his weight, grinning wickedly and looking into the sunset, other hand absentmindedly playing with Aziraphale’s hair, ruffling the curls into a rather devastatingly messy pile. The angel looked at him rather crossly, but said nothing, sipping his tea again.

“I may’ve, but it’s nice hearing it straight from you.”

Aziraphale rolled his eyes, but he was smiling along with Crowley, looking up at him and kissing him on the cheek. It seemed that throughout the day he’d become thoroughly addicted to the taste of Crowley, and his heart did a funny little jump as he realized he’d be able to savor it for as long as he wanted.

“Now, darling, what was it you said about macarons?”

As they fell back into their familiar bickering and teasing, in the next room, a gramophone began playing, quietly enough that it wouldn’t disturb either of them, what should’ve been the Great Classics Collection, but came out as something that sounded a great deal like Bohemian Rhapsody. The sun set on the pair as Aziraphale produced a bottle of champagne from his cabinet, Crowley snarking at him when he couldn’t quite open it, from his position perched on the counter, hair tousled and fluffed by one certain angel, one leg dangling off the edge, swinging lazily. The angel muttered something rude at him, which made him cackle delightedly, though his face quickly fell as he noticed the flour getting on his trousers. Aziraphale laughed, and Crowley indignantly pointed out the lack of clean surfaces for him to sit on, and cleanliness is next to godliness and all that, and they quickly got into a discussion about what is and is not a sitting area.

It felt so blessedly normal, like coming home from a long trip and watering the plants for the first time in a while and falling asleep to the ambient sounds of your own backyard again knowing the worst of it was over.

It also felt different, and uncertain, but wonderful, so wonderful, like they were back in the Beginning again, discovering the world She had created one small bit at a time, starting with the Garden and expanding outwards, ad astra, together.

At the core of it all, it felt, they both thought, like the beginning of something lovely.

-fin-

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so yeah! i’m in the middle of writing a sequel to this, so keep posted because that’ll be done relatively soon :)
> 
> don’t forget to shoot me a message on tumblr if you liked it! kudos and comments are also very much appreciated.


End file.
